It Was Fun To Walk Around On The Moon For A Day
by jackqueenking
Summary: Meet me at the cemetery gates at midnight. I'll be holding a single white carnation. You'll have my name on your lips and my heart in your hands.
1. LOOKS

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Gymnasium

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Nessie, Jake

Rating: K

LOOKS

Cole Saunders likes me.

He's been giving me looks, and before now he's glanced away once he's aware I've noticed, but today he stared right back.

A note was slipped across desks, ending up on mine.

"_Behind the gym, 4 o'clock_."

I met him, we talked, it was nice. He touched my hair.

"Where'd you get such a weird name?" he asked.

There's just no good answer to that.

Later, Jake was cross, scolding, "You shouldn't be hanging around boys, Ness. Don't speak to that guy again."

I don't know how he knew.

I don't know why he cares.


	2. TUTORIAL

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Parking Lot

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: T

TUTORIAL

"Bella, your parallel parking could improve," Edward says, just because I give him whiplash every time I hit the curb.

"How?"

"A tutorial. Let's go to the parking lot at school."

"And you qualified as a driving instructor when?"

He smirks, which I like. It makes me want to kiss him. I kiss him now.

And on Saturday, we're there practising.

"Back another eight inches. Why've you stopped?"

I get out and look.

"Edward, what _you _keep telling me is eight inches is way shorter than the distance to the curb."

Now _I _smirk, and he kisses _me._


	3. PERFECT

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Cafe

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: K+

PERFECT

Would a reasonable person would go into a huff because someone before them in the queue got the last choc-chip cookie?

Would a reasonable person sit and stare through the window, glare through the window, _don't care_ through the window, clearly sulking?

No.

The guilt-tripping works, though. I relent.

"Excuse me, guess I'm not as hungry as I'd thought. Would you like to share this?"

"That's very generous, but I couldn't. Oh, wait, I could. Thanks."

She smiles. She's pretty.

"You know, half is the perfect amount," she concedes.

Really? Hmm.

"You're buying tomorrow then," I suggest.

_Game on_.


	4. SILVER

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Greenhouse

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: K+

SILVER

Frosty air and silver'd sky -  
>in such climes could Beauty's beauty thrive?<p>

Needs she not the sun on high  
>to keep the bloom on her fair cheeks alive?<p>

Damp here too, this forest deep,  
>clouds e'er present o'er her sleep.<p>

They hold the dark where Beauty lies  
>wrapped in blankets. Soft her sighs<p>

as I commit to ease the chill;  
>hold winter's breath at bay. I swear<p>

no icy touch will touch her; I will  
>promise warmth in all that's near.<p>

My own hand encased within a glove,  
>and heart a greenhouse - therein I'll love my love<p>

.

.

.

Believe it or not, this is a sonnet. Ha ha! Scholars will be affronted as it follows none of the standard rhyme conventions, and only four lines are iambic pentameter.


	5. EMPIRE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Italy

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Emmett, Bella

Rating: K+

EMPIRE

"Did you know Shelley died in a boating accident in Italy?" Bella asks, looking up from her English Lit homework.

"Poor chick. That's rough. Was she a friend of yours?" my brother Emmett replies.

"Shelley the _poet_. He wrote Ozymandias," Bella explains. "In 1818."

"Dude wrote a poem about some Australian guy way back then? Was Australia even invented yet?"

He's embarrassing. Bella shrugs and Emmett returns to his gaming.

Then homework finished, she asks what he's playing.

"_Playing_? I've created an empire!" he declares indignantly. "Look on my works ye mighty and despair!"

Ok, not so embarrassing.


	6. BOOKSTORE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Bookstore

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: T

COLLISION

So here we are. It's been - what, eight years? - since I've seen you, and I've been living in other cities, making and breaking relationships, changing jobs, moving houses. All that shit that happens when a person isn't settled because they haven't found the right direction for their life.

I've been looking forward to tonight for weeks, ever since I found I'd be flying in for this launch, for the book you've written.

And look at you! So gorgeous, still. One glance, and I'm as smitten as I was back then. Back before I screwed it all up by leaving, when all I wanted to do was stay.

You're in a navy blue dress, and your hair's darker - have you colored it? Maybe not, it's hard to tell under this light. You've filled out, I notice. You were so skinny all those years ago, not that I minded. I thought you were perfect - now you're even better.

Actually, I did used to mind. You were so slight I worried about your fragility. It's killed me ever since that I wouldn't do what both of us wanted so much - but I felt so huge in comparison, and I felt out of control around you. Once in a nightmare I snapped you like a twig, trying to make love, and it made me so fearful. You misinterpreted my fear, taking it as rejection, and all the kisses in the world couldn't seem to prove to you that I wanted you. And I knew with a sick, sick pain in my belly and a leaden weight in my heart, that when I left, that's what you thought it was about. It wasn't, my God, it wasn't. I hope I get the chance to explain. Tonight I'm going to talk to you, tell you everything. And then...

One thing I didn't expect, though, couldn't have foreseen, was that _he_'d be here. He still wants you, too, it's all over him. The sheer fucking delight on his face when you were announced was unmissable. And it cut me to the quick that you look almost as delighted as he does. I don't know what may or may not have happened between the two of you after I went away - I only know what happened before. That he was your best friend. Your best friend that kissed you. From the way he's hugging you now, it looks as though rather more than kissing has happened. He has no hesitation in pulling you close and putting his mouth to your cheek, and then your ear as though he's whispering. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I turn to the wine table, because alcohol helps. With its assistance, I may find a girl here who's half as pretty as you, and half as appealing, and I may get to take her home and keep the lights off.

But the best laid plans, as they say, can go awry. A poor substitute may not end up my solace for the night, because as I face the room again, you're right behind me. Through the dark, the throng and the noise, you've found me.

"Hey."

Oh, God. The years melt away. The look in your eyes shuts the world out, creates our own private space, lures me into your orbit and secures me there.

"Well, well," I answer back, as though my gaze hasn't been pinned to you for the last twenty minutes.

Our smiles say everything, though it's everything with a lot of gaps. Mine doesn't tell of the loneliness, the feeling of wasted years, the frustration. Yours just says you're glad to be here, and glad to see me.

As if at our unspoken command a way appears through the press of people and we take it, you ahead, finding the steps to the foyer, the doors to the street outside. It's a humid night, with a welcome breeze coming from the harbor. I'm a little clammy - you're glistening.

"So - how have things been during the last forever?" you ask flippantly.

"Varied. You?"

"Busy. Quiet." You nod. "This and that happened. All sorts went on. I followed your career in the science papers."

"Some of the articles were probably factual. Depending on which publication you read them in."

"Oh, I only go for the creditable journals. I saw you successfully spliced yak genes with pumpkin so the baby yaks would have orange wool."

"That's true, but someone before me did the same experiment with beets."

"They got purple wool?"

"They got purple pumpkins."

I love your laugh. I loved it years ago and missed it fiercely, and now I have it back, warm while the neons around us are cold.

"It's really good to see you, Bella."

"It's really good to see you, too, but we should probably get back inside. I'm sort of the guest of honor. They'll be sending out a search party."

You're right, and this is your night. I haven't a hope in hell of stopping myself placing my hand gently against your back as we walk towards the door of the bookstore. You don't slide away though. You let me.

Then we're once more in the melee and you're being feted. Your name in lights, your name on two hundred pairs of lips, spoken by two hundred voices. The admiration for you in this room is palpable and I'm so proud of your success. My shy, clever girl, grown into a woman respected in her field and winning acclaim.

You're taken from me by a collection of peers, colleagues and sycophants. Moments later you're on the makeshift stage, accepting a presentation, speaking with assurance and knowledge and graciousness. My heart thuds slowly, slowly, matching my breath. You're a million miles from the sweet gawky child you were when we met yet your enunciation is still hers. So are the little pauses and tiny frowns while you find the right words.

When the speeches are over you're escorted to meet people and receive their congratulations. We all form an orderly line. You're quick now, shaking hands and dispensing thank you's as sincere as they are brief.

_He's_ ahead of me in the line. You smile, hand extended. Both of his hands come up to clasp yours, and he bends down to you. He's very tall, taller than me. You're smiling up as he kisses you on the cheek, and I don't like it. I try to shake off the uneasiness, telling myself that you and I have shared time already this evening that was meaningful and promising. We'll be sharing more than just time later. We'll pick up where we left off all those years ago, following what would have been our natural trajectory. Your place or mine, it's immaterial, we'll be together and unstoppable.

When you're in front of me I kiss you too, ignoring the people on either side of us. My kiss is to your lips, letting you know, and letting everyone know, that I have intentions. Your mouth is soft beneath mine, though you don't let me linger. Your fingers shift in my grip, and I know you know what I'm thinking and feeling.

It's not long after that until the function draw to a close and you come to find me again.

"Edward, I'm so glad you could be here tonight. It's wonderful to see you. You look - well, you look amazing. I'm so pleased your career has been going well."

A warning bell goes off in my head. The way you're saying these things sounds like you're winding up, approaching a goodnight.

"Where are you staying?" I ask. "I could come back with you for a drink. I'd like that. I'd really like to talk to you some more."

But you shake your head, and with a dreadful feeling I realize it's going wrong. Not what I had wished for for tonight at all. _He's_ at your side, proprietary, ignoring my glare.

"Edward, you remember Jake, don't you?" you say.

"Yes."

I sure do, and I remember years ago, as now, I wished he'd fuck the hell off and leave you and I on our own.

"We're married."

And I have nothing further to say. Nothing to think or do. Nowhere to go. I blink stupidly, because this scenario is not something I imagined and I have no idea how to respond. I only envisaged joyous mutual seduction for tonight, and hours of discovery and rediscovery. Unending pleasure and declarations of love, because oh yes, I know with certitude that I love you, and have loved you since we were teenagers.

But not this. Not this.

Jake knew then how I felt about you, and he can see that nothing's changed. But it doesn't matter to him, because I was the idiot back then who left the country, and he was the one who stayed around, and he got a ring on your finger. He shared your nights and your bed; your firsts that would have been mine. I see that I underestimated him - thinking that because he was a year younger than you, and therefore light-years younger, he wouldn't be clever enough to win.

But he did win.

And thus ends my night, and my hopes.

Out on the street I don't know which way to turn, and it doesn't actually matter. All roads lead away from my love - away from you.

.

.

.

Is anybody reading these? Does anybody like them? Go on, tell me! (pretty please)


	7. ACCOMPLICE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Italian restaurant

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward

Rating: T

ACCOMPLICE

Accepted wisdom is that there's one born every minute. In my experience, they're nowhere near that common, but still, if you know exactly what you're looking for, they're not that hard to find.

It's not that they all look the same, or talk the same, or wear some sort of badge as indicator that they're in the club - but there's a certain _something_ that they all have - an air, or a look, or a way of sliding their eyes. Maybe it's as simple as a scent that they give off, indiscernible yet unmistakeable once you know it.

And when you've found that person you want them, you need them, you'll do what it takes to keep them. Until you slip, or they do. Until it's all over. They're the ones who pay the price, it's never you, but then they enjoyed the rewards while the rewards lasted. They have the high life - the money, the girls, the booze, the glamor. Whatever they desire, until a zealous cop or a grieving family member probes enough to uncover them. Then it's jail, or a more permanent imprisonment that involves not breathing any more.

Sometimes you just have enough, and decide to see them off.

They might beg and plead to be delivered, to share the darkness, but me and my kind don't need our ranks swelled by them and their kind. We're particular. We were particular when we chose them, let's face it. Our choices and decisions are not random.

This town has its nice parts, but tonight that's not where I'm going. My as-yet-unfound quarry doesn't visit the nice parts, much as he'd like to. His disposition has an invisible aura that people can pick up, and he's not welcome in polite society. In order to find him I need to go to the alleys, the dark, the corners and doorways where people gather. They talk cards, they talk horses. They reek of booze and cigarettes. They have habits they can't afford and can't kick. The man I want will be here and I can pay him amply enough to support those habits and even develop a few new ones. What he chooses to do is up to him, as long as he takes care of my business efficiently.

My appearance is startling as a rule, and it's startling tonight. The group of men I've approached scatter, each of them hostile and truculent, and ready to take me on. I'm young though, for hanging around here, I'm clean, and without vanity, I'm far too pretty. Their glares turn to scorn.

"None of us want what you're selling. You're in the wrong neighborhood," one sneers.

"Oh, I'm not selling," I inform him. "I'm _buying_."

"Well, _we're_ not selling either. Why don't you find somewhere classier to spend your time? Bad things happen to nice boys like you in places like this," another informs me. I surmise that the unspecified bad things include teeth being knocked out, because he's missing several. He'll be missing more than teeth if he annoys me any further - he'll be missing vital organs.

"I've come to make an offer of employment," I say, ignoring his warning, which could also be viewed as a threat. "I need to speak to someone in the disposal industry."

"Disposal?"

I've got their interest now.

"Disposal of what?"

"Leftovers," I say.

"What sort of leftovers? Kentucky fried chicken?"

"Not exactly. Somewhat larger."

One or two of them drift away, bored. Another couple drift away looking uneasy.

"What business are you in, mister?" the smallest, dirtiest of those remaining asks me.

"Nothing that need concern you. I just want to know your availability, and your willingness."

"You're not being very clear. How are we supposed to answer when we don't know the question?"

I lean forward, bending to look directly into his face. "Sometimes I make a little mess, and I want someone to clean it up for me," I say. "Now and again, I require the services of a cleaner. I pay extremely well and I don't care how the job is done, as long as what I want to get rid of disappears."

He's still frowning but his eyes light up at the mention of being paid. The rest of his companions scurry off, no doubt unsure as to my credibility. They may be worried about the nature of my character as well, since I have gleaned over the years that I sometimes give the impression I'm a psychopath. Unintentional, of course, but not far from the truth, although the truth is complex.

This particular weasel though, is too greedy to be alarmed.

"Do you mean what I think you mean?"

"That all rather depends, doesn't it?"

"If you're in this neck of the woods, talking about _disposals_ and _cleaning_, there's an understanding. An expectation. You tell me where you want me to be, and I'll be there - how about that?" he offers quickly, seeing that I'm becoming restless.

"Certainly," I agree.

"Before we seal the deal - what are you going to pay?" he asks hastily.

I name a figure that makes his eyes go round as saucers.

"Is that sufficient to cover your costs and give you a little spending money afterwards?" I inquire smoothly, knowing full well it's enough for him to fill his bath with champagne and hookers, and snort cocaine off the vanity shelf before and afterwards. "Oh, and if I'm pleased with your work, there'll be plenty more coming your way."

He almost loses his composure, drooling and stuttering, making me wonder briefly whether I've made the wrong selection, but even if I have, it doesn't matter. If he fails to do what I require of him I won't pay, easy as that. And he'll be the one left holding the evidence, so to speak. I'm untouchable in all this, and to be honest, the sort of clearance I want him to perform is something I could do myself, it's just that I find dealing with dead bodies so distasteful. I only like them when the hearts are still thumping.

"It's sufficient. Where do I need to go? What time?" he breathes, looking into his future and seeing self-indulgence on a scale he's never been able to imagine before. He's eager and he'll do whatever I ask. Oh yes, there's one born every minute.

I give him a time and a place tomorrow - because why wait? - and ask his name.

"Mackie Messer," he replies. "And what do I call you?"

Anything you want, as long as it's respectful, I think. Otherwise I'll rip your throat out. As it happens I never reveal my real name. Starting mentally with the letter A as he waits, I dismiss Adam as too biblical. Adair? A joke. Ashton? Never heard of it. Anthony? That will do.

"Anthony," I tell him.

And so it begins.

Perhaps I haven't explained myself. When I speak of _disposals_ and _cleaning_, perhaps there is no understanding between you and me, the way there was between me and him. The fact is, on cold clear nights I come down to these areas, these dimly lit quarters where streetlights cast a glow over sinners and mendicants, the unfortunate and the cursed, and I exercise my prerogative. I act as unilateral judge, seeing the worst in people, the crimes and sins and wickedness. An angel on the side of right, I descend in avenging glory. It's not my choice that I need to consume life in order to live, but I can choose what lives I take, and I choose to employ my own hunger as a weapon for society, to rid communities of undesirable elements.

And once I've attacked in stealth, I let Mackie know, and along he comes with his gloves on, toting the bag he'll stuff the bodies in. He'll haul them away over his shoulder. For a small man he is surprisingly strong, and it could be it's my money that makes him so. We're a team with no team spirit - Mackie and I. I rid the town of pestilence, and he carries the refuse in a sack on his back, taking it on a tugboat to the midstream of the river, weighting it and sending it to rot along with the other effluence of this sick town.

The town is becoming noticeably less sick since I got here.

And Mackie is out nightly, drinking and carousing, big-noting it amongst his cronies, bragging that he is a hero setting the world to rights, because of course I have forbidden him from mentioning me.

Months later, it's time to move on. The crime rate here is almost zero, and Mackie is getting jaded. He's screwed every prostitute along the harborside for wads of cash, and all the frustrated wives who are so pissed with their husbands that they'd slum it with someone as ugly as him for free. Nasty Mackie though is also putting it to women who've said no, over-riding their refusals. That's not the sort of thing I like to hear.

I arrange to meet him at an Italian restaurant for this, which unknown to him, will be our last transaction.

"Mackie, I want to thank you for your loyalty and your efficiency," I tell him, over saltimbocco.

He shrugs, expressively. "No problems, Anthony."

"Our association is most beneficial to both of us, I'm sure you'll agree," I add, him stuffing veal and tomato into his mouth and me not eating anything. It doesn't escape me though, that my lips during feeding, dripping with redness, must look just as his do now. He's never flinched, seeing me at these times. It doesn't matter.

I make sure he's had all the valpolicella he could want. He's served me well, after all, even if I don't like his own-time proclivities.

Then once we're finished, and strolling outside, I remark, "Such a lovely evening. The moon reflecting on the river is so mysterious, don't you think? So evocative?"

Oh, Mackie. He lurches and grunts drunkenly, odious little snail that he is. Time's up, Mackie.

As a rule I'm not fond of Italian wine, but I do enjoy valpolicella. And the inky black river doesn't make a sound as Mackie slips in, motionless, heading for the coast.

Where to now for me? I've heard Seattle has quite the problem with rapists and thieves. I'm happy to help out in any way I can, providing I have an accomplice. Someone to help with cleaning.

Accepted wisdom is that there's one born every minute. In my experience, they're nowhere near that common, but still, if you know exactly what you're looking for, they're not that hard to find.

.

.

.

"Mackie Messer" also known as "Mack the Knife" from The Threepenny Opera composed by Kurt Weill with lyrics by Bertolt Brecht

Thank you


	8. YOUR CHOICE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Tent

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: K

YOUR CHOICE

"_Camping?_" Edward repeats, incredulous.

He's always about the grand gesture, but for this, I want simplicity.

"Yep. No hotels, no luxury, no staff. Just us," I nod.

"Our anniversary..."

"Will be _wonderful_."

I get my wish. Alone together, Edward and me, beneath the sky.

"Beloved," he whispers, handing me an envelope. "For you."

I already have everything I want.

In the firelight, I can just make out printing on a certificate.

"THE BEARER IS ENTITLED TO REGISTER THE NAME OF A STAR"

"Your choice, your name, forever..." he murmurs.

So, he still manages a grand gesture, even in a tent.


	9. RUNWAY

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : airport

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: T

RUNWAY

"Dearly demented, we are gathered here today to mourn the fate of one Isabella Marie Swan, so loved by all of us - yeah, shut up already - who has suffered the misfortune of being trapped in marriage to this ridiculous and heinous fool, Edward Anthony Masen Cullen.

"So says I, Emmett McCarthy, and I'm sure you'll all agree that Bella could have done a lot better. Sadly, though she's a lovely girl, she's completely lacking in good judgement, and is now doomed to having witless and ugly children.

"All right, all right, I'm being harsh. Edward is my best friend, after all, and you'd think I could dredge up one or two favorable things to say about him. Let's see - ah, no. Drawing a blank, here. I got nada.

"But seriously folks, all jokes aside, it truly is an honor to be here on this wonderful occasion, celebrating the joyful union of Bella and Edward.

"Permit me to reminisce for a moment. I was present the day these two met, and I'm telling you it was just like a chick flick. Really. Their eyes met across a crowded cafeteria, and Bella wasn't wearing her glasses, and the rest is hysterical.

"It was back in high school, as I'm sure you're all aware. Edward had reached the grand old age of seventeen without ever having had a girlfriend. We thought he was a bit of a - you know - _confirmed bachelor._ Bella was a new student, and didn't know her way around yet. Has everyone heard this story? Our Ed was in every AP class going since he devoted all his time to studying and had no hobbies, played no sports, and essentially was without a life. Until Bella showed up he thought he was the brightest kid in school. But suddenly here was someone getting the same sort of grades as he was, without being socially retarded. She was smart, and bright, and clever, and he wasn't used to anyone challenging his lofty position. He was so affected he tried getting out of the classes they were in together because he couldn't stand the competition.

"And being Edward, he was a little slow to notice that she was also totally hot.

"By the time he did notice, she'd been asked out by half the guys in school, but she didn't go. People were actually starting to wonder if the lovely Bella was a confirmed _bachelorette_, if you know what I mean. You didn't hear about that, Bells? All those rumors? No, really, nobody was saying that at all. They were saying you must have your eye on someone, and what a lucky bastard. Little did we know, folks, it turned out our quiet, mysterious Isabella was harboring a secret crush on the school's biggest dweeb. _Edward_.

"Their love blossomed in Biology class over frog dissection - weird but true! Amphibian entrails have been known to have aphrodisiac properties. Quieten down now, people. Look at this face - would I tell a lie? No! I swear on my dimples!

"Well, I was at Eddie's house the first time he brought Bella over, since I'm the lucky man to have snared Edward's sister Rosalie. Go me! Aw, come on Rosie, don't get mad, baby! I thank my lucky stars every day for you! That day Edweeb walked in with an actual, real live _girl,_ and I swear, my Rosalie was so amazed she dropped the bowl of salad she'd been preparing, and it smashed all over the floor. You can't pick glass shards out of tomatoes, you know, so that was a damn waste of some very nice fruit.

"Anyhow, Bella had the whole family charmed within minutes, she's such a lovely girl. And our dear nutso friend, kooky Alice with her ouija board and crystal ball and palmistry teacup future readings predicted that one day not so far in the future, Edward and Bella would be joined in holy matrimony.

"Of course, everyone laughed their heads off.

"But Alice was right all along! The day she foresees Rosie accepting me as a husband will be the happiest day of my - Rosie? Catch the bouquet, darling, I'm begging you...

"So we're here today to welcome Bella to the fold. We're proud and happy to count you as a friend Bells, and as a member of this crazy bunch of misfits and renegades who somehow love each other so freakin' much we're one big, unbreakable, unofficial family. We're truly delighted that Edward's found someone who can appreciate him, and that you're not on meds. Although even if you were, we'd love you anyway. You're one of us now, for better or worse. Oh, that's what the celebrant already said, isn't it?

"Okay, okay, I've probably gone on long enough, even for a Best Man.

"So I'd like to offer my hearty congratulations to two lucky souls who've managed to find one another in this big, vast, busy universe. Edward has needed a guiding star. Bella is the airport of home to his uncharted flights, the signal flag to guide him down the runway of love.

"And Edward - he's a law unto himself, but in a good way. He's the kind of guy who'll only say something funny once a year - but it's so funny you get a year's laughing out of it. He's thoughtful and devoted, and he's the kid brother I never had. He had to grow up real fast because his parents died, and I know it cuts him that they couldn't be here today, but maybe because of that early loss he inherited an ethic of seeing through anything he sets his mind to. With his plans of being a doctor, I have no doubt at all he'll be at the top of his field, and he'll be a really, really _good_ doctor.

"And Bella, I'm here to tell you that Edward will treasure you for always, there's never been anyone else for him. And I take the piss out of him all the time, I know I do, but it's only because I love him so fucking much - hey, that just slipped out, sorry if the f-bomb offended anyone - and Bella I love _you_ so fucking much, too. You guys are so perfect together.

"So ladies and gentleman and assorted others, join with me now and raise your glasses - I give you Mr and Mrs Cullen!

"What's that Rosie? You didn't like the airport analogy? What about the runway of love line? I thought that one was really good! Oh, you did too? _Baby_. Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes..."

.

.

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	10. PANIC

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Movie theatre

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Jake, Bella

Rating: K+

PANIC

and so when she suggested catching a movie I was thrilled and nervous, equally. God, was this a date? My first. I had to tell Billy, of course, because I needed to ask for money, and I had to say where I was going and when I'd be home. I was trying to be casual, all, "Just a movie, Dad. I'll be back later," but I was probably infra-red with giveaway heat.

"Who are you going with?" Dad asked, fake-casual, yet following me from room to room.

"Uh, Bella."

"Bella _Swan_?"

Oh, like there's any other Bellas in town.

"Yeah. That's the one."

"_Charlie_ Swan's daughter?"

He's such a comedian, my Dad. Missed his calling, totally. He should be the star of his own reality tv show.

"Yup."

Thinking on this for a while, with me hoping he'll hand over a fifty and the car keys and let me outta here.

"_Bella_ Swan?"

Christ, already. Those creases around his eyes from the last hundred years of laughing at his only son deepen, and any second now he's going to cackle like a witch. And I'm going to, oh jeez, I don't know what I'm going to do. My temper's uncertain these days, although losing it with my Dad would be about the stupidest thing ever. Even in a wheelchair he's got an authority that you just don't mess with. So inwardly I may be gritting my teeth, which I brushed until I probably took a layer of enamel off, but outwardly I smile.

"Don't drag this out, Dad. There's no mileage in it. Seriously."

He'll find mileage, no doubt about it, but he hands me a fifty, and a twenty too, and I'm on my way before he's had the chance to say, "Remember Jake, Charlie's got a gun," which I bet he's _busting_ to remind me.

At the cinema, I die, I just _die_, when I see another student from Forks Stupid High hanging there with Bella, waiting for me. A _guy_ student. One who looks pleading and besotted and like he wants to get in the back row with her and do whatever. I'd rather punch his face off than say hello, but I greet him politely, thinking _WTF_? She brought a chaperone because she thought I might jump her? Impossible. Or maybe _I'm_ the chaperone, because she and I are all matey-matey and hang out a lot, and she thinks _he_ might jump her. She needs me for security.

"Jake, Mike. Mike, Jake," she says, unnecessarily, since I know him. He's a dickhead.

It's all very awkward in the dark, with me affected by a complete inability to concentrate on the screen because she's so _there_. Her knee, inches from mine. Her hand, ditto. I'm sixteen, and something about being sixteen has made my sense of smell more acute, although the "what happens when you grow up" talk at school didn't mention it. I can smell Bella, her shampoo, her laundry detergent, her soap, and underneath the layer of synthetic chemicals, something else. A sort of mild agitation, which I read as clearly as words on a page. She's a bit freaked. I could speculate for all I'm worth as to why, but I'd be leading myself up the garden path. Everything I know about women, which is four-fifths of nothing, has taught me that I'll never understand them.

So I scent for Mike - the doofus. He's excited. Okay, so now I _really _want to punch him. He's got absolutely no right whatsoever to sit next to Bella Swan in the dark and feel excited. He's toast.

The movie finishes and I didn't bother with so much as a second of it, and I know Bella didn't either. I know Doofus did, because his heartbeat and adrenaline and sweat were heightening whenever the film-makers' shooting and editing had decreed that audiences should respond that way. Manipulated, much? _Douchebag?_

Out in the foyer he says he feels sick, and I have a glimmer of feeling sorry for him. He actually doesn't look too good. Bella's restrained and quiet, not like she usually is with me. I mean, she's pretty quiet as a rule, although she and I talk plenty. When we're alone.

I drive him home, hoping he won't throw up in the car. Then I drop Bella off.

"Hey, Jake, thanks for tonight," she says at her house, her voice husky in that way it goes when she's talking really quietly. It's only about ten-thirty, but this is a small town, and the streets are empty. Loud talking would be heard by the neighbors, by the bears and squirrels off in the woods, and just possibly by her dad, polishing up his weaponry, giving each bullet a kiss and whispering a name to it before setting his sights.

He's got no reason, no reason at all to worry about me, the son of his lifelong best friend. Except that I've got a crush on his daughter that's apparently apparent to my own father, who will not hold back with the funny. If Charlie doesn't know already about my epic love, I will be very surprised. I would have expected Billy to be on the phone as soon as I walked out the door, offering to pay half for the wedding. There's no doubt whatsoever that Billy approves - if he didn't, when I asked him for money to take a girl out he would have told me to get a job.

So.

Bella's out of the car and heading up to her front door, me following along behind not really knowing what to do. I've never kissed a girl. I really, really want to kiss her, and I lick my lips to moisten them while she's not looking, but as it turns out I didn't need to.

"See you soon, Jake. Thanks for the lift. I'll call," she says over her shoulder, gone. Door in my face while I stand there like an idiot blinking at it.

Okay - so did that go well or not? I've no idea, and I don't have anyone to ask. Billy? Nope. My sisters? Hell, no. My friends? The guffawing would last for weeks.

Mulling it over, I drive back to La Push. No touching, no kissing, no flirting. The inclusion of a third party. Add it up, Jake!

I'm a dick and I got it all wrong. She just doesn't like me like that.

At home, Billy's still up, though it's way past when he'd normally be in bed. Great.

"How was your date, son?" he asks with pride and fondness.

"It wasn't a date, Dad, I already told you," I answer, pretty downcast.

"That's funny," he answers. "Because Charlie told me Bella asked you out and then panicked and asked another guy along because she was so nervous about it."

"_What?_"

Managing to pull off looking smug and innocent at the same time, the devil in my Dad adds, "Oh, yes, Charlie seems to think Bella likes you a lot."

"_Really_?" I ask my Dad. "Charlie said that?"

Well, I've still got the car keys, and I'm just about to run through the front door, drive all the way into town again and throw gravel at Bella's window. Maybe I'll even climb up there and get that kiss I wanted so bad and was too scared to try for.

"Hey, there," Billy's voice stops me. "You should probably think twice about going around to her place at eleven-thirty at night."

This time I hear the warning, which he utters with absolute gravity.

"Remember Jake, _Charlie's got a gun_."

Underneath the serious tone, I just _know_ he's laughing, but still.

Guess I'll hit the sack right now, and call her tomorrow.

.

.

.


	11. PLEASE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Seattle

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Rosalie, Emmett

Rating: T

PLEASE

Breezing in like he owns everything, it's Emmett McCarty from Head Office in Seattle.

"Ms Hale, get me a coffee, would you?" he barks.

"Rosalie, please," I purr.

He smirks. "Okay - Rosalie, get me a coffee, would you?"

"Rosalie, _please_," I correct. Firmly.

"Well, Rosalie Please, get me a coffee, would you?"

He's probably six-two. I'm six foot myself, without today's four-inch heels. I stand. He gets the awed expression men always get, which is usually replaced by panic, but not now.

"How do you take it?" I ask.

"Any way you give it to me," he answers.

_Game on_

_._

_._

_._

From a perusal of my stats, it appears I may now have a number of readers that gets into double figures. I'm not sure though. In fact, I probably haven't, since I count about as well as I write.


	12. BEFALL

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt :Cottage

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Charlie, Sue

Rating: K

BEFALL

Once upon a time a family lived in a

cottage at the edge of a great forest. Although they

were poor they dwelled happily there for many years until

misfortune befell them, the way sad things can befall happy

people. The mother died, leaving the husband and daughter

heartbroken. Ysabeau strove to comfort her father Charlemagne

whose grief overcame him. One day she heard that there

was a widow living nearby who was in search of a partner. Ysabeau

introduced her father to Susanna and the pair wed.

Ysabeau gained a loving stepsister, Lleandra, and a stepbrother, Sett.

The end.

.

.

.


	13. HOMELAND

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Beach

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Bella, Jacob, Edward

Rating: K

HOMELAND

Where seabirds keen and cry, dipping their wings

In salute to castled kings

Whose battlements adorned with shells and twigs and shiny things

So briefly stand

.

Where blue Poseiden's horses ever play

Surge, recede, night into day

Splash glittering crescendos from their manes of diamond spray

Onto the sand

.

Here _his_ wild heart, _his_ deathless homeland - here

You cannot enter, cannot venture near

Were I free

It's here I'd be

.

But though I love him deep, and love him true

(Would love him only if it weren't for you),

You hushed my voice;

Hijacked my will; thus governing my choice

.

.

.


	14. COMMUNICATIONS

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Police Station

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Charlie

Rating: K

COMMUNICATIONS

Field trips to places of interest in Forks? The list could be termed "short."

So here we are, taking a tour of the Police Station.

"Cells," we're told.

"Munitions store."

"Communications room."

"Lunchroom."

It's the dullest class excursion we've been on so far. I much preferred the visit to the plant nursery.

And then before we all start ambling back up the road to school, the Chief says, "Nice of you to come by, kids, but please take note - I don't want to see any of you here again. Unless it's because you've joined the force."

Yeah, thanks, Dad.

.

.

.


	15. ONE GLORIOUS MOMENT IN TIME

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Ballet Studio

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Carlisle

Rating: T

ONE GLORIOUS MOMENT IN TIME

Ah, Paris!

If I could make Paris immortal, I would. If the City of Light had a throat, I'd caress it, stroke it, bend it to my lips and give it the kiss of forever. But Paris is so magical, so teeming with elegance and vivacity and wit and charm that it would require the kiss every day, every minute, and we'd need whole new worlds to accommodate all the Parises I'd take a snapshot of - a snapshot that captures and preserves its recipient in whatever state it was in upon receipt.

So Paris evolves, changes, spins like a music-box dancer and I, enchanted as a child, gaze transfixed by the chime of the tune and the twirl of the spectacle.

However Paris today right now, or I should say tonight, is where I am, with a quandary before me.

The Moulin Rouge is the place of the moment, hosting the very latest in thought and art and culture. Philosophers sit at tables debating ideas with drunk visionaries and mad poets. Women so ravishing they'd steal your breath right along with your heart lean towards you, creamy decolletage a delectable temptation. The profane and the sacred, the progressive and the doomed, the sick and the gifted are all concentrated here like a cache of dynamite. Dead as I am, I have never felt so alive. At every turn my eye or my ear is caught by some vivid new thing that I must examine, and I glide soundlessly, observing, experiencing. This time will never come again, nor its like.

When I first entered and saw the pictures on the walls, they appeared to be moving.

"What wonder is this?" I asked myself, thinking within the frames were mirrors placed artfully, reflecting the vitality and color of the place. But closer scrutiny revealed no actual motion, just the sense of it in forms that quivered with breath, limbs so artfully rendered they appeared round and real.

Slowly I advanced, and just as slowly, examined each work, my gaze following lines as carefully as the brush itself had painted them, as the artist had depicted the contours of his subjects. He had paid careless yet minute attention to the inanimate too - the furniture and floors, the costumes - everything that in its staticness gave life to the girls he portrayed. And yes, they were all girls. Look at them, here displayed upon the canvases! Brimming with such character I feel that I know them.

Most of them are dancers. Each frame contained an extraordinary depiction of a scene in a ballet studio. A glimpse into a world frequented by none but the dedicated - and perhaps none so dedicated as whomsoever it was wielding the brush. Life, humanity, grace and humility in a handful of solid limbs danced across canvas and nearly brought me to my knees.

_Sir, I must know who you are. Etes-vous ici, ce soir?_

I've been blocking out the chatter and the music all around, so overcome have I been by the pictures, that once I relax and allow myself to hear the resultant sound is a flood. Individual voices are almost impossible to isolate, but phrases, and snatches of phrases come to me. Most of them I dismiss. Idle gossip and sweet nothings, bold political statements and lines of poetry are the order of the night. I'm about to go and enquire when I start to understand more of what's being said. Whispers turn to words, murmurs turn to sentences. Such-and-such over there is a respected musician. So-and-so in the corner is a celebrated composer. There is an artiste - you should see him, such an unlikely looking fellow to have such a gift - it is his work exhibited in the Moulin Rouge, you know! He has his own dedicated chair and table here! His name is Henri Toulouse-Lautrec.

As the name is spoken heads turn, conversation pauses. It seems the entire room is facing itself towards one little table where a man sits alone, observing all of us even as all of us observe him. Painter, artist, visionary - this is he? The man throws back a drink and signals for another with a wave of his hand. He ignores everyone but the barmaid, très jolie, who brings him cognac.

In my world, no-one is magnificent who doesn't look it. This man defies expectation. He challenges pre-conception. Is nature laughing, to have bestowed splendor upon a subject so unusual? He looks unwell. When he stands, he clutches at a cane for support, and even supported his stature is unnaturally small. His nose and forehead protrude, his chin recedes. Is this the man?

I approach. My French is impeccable, and I address him in an accent he won't be able to place, though it is clearly aristocratic.

"Monsieur? Je comprends que vous êtes un artiste..."

"Ainsi?" he replies irritably.

"Permettez-moi de te dire combien j'admire votre travail."

"Naturellement. Je suis un génie. Excusez-moi," he responds, pushing brusquely past me.

There is something gravely amiss about him. I've identified on his skin the lesions symptomatic of a syphilitic infection, as well as ulcerations caused by treatment with mercury salves. His condition could cause early death, or he could live another fifty years. But this is not his only problem. His build concerns me, too. Though his upper body is within the normal size-range for an adult male, his legs are abnormal, even truncated. I have spent many, many years studying anatomy, as well as pharmacology, pathology, and all other aspects of the human condition I could either read about or receive tutelage in, and Monsieur Toulouse-Lautrec strikes me as an oddity. The spirit in me moved immeasurably by inexplicable beauty admires his art - now my professional inquisitiveness seeks to know what it is that ails him.

"Monseiur! Attend, s'il vous plait!" I call to his receding figure, following his abrupt departure, though he doesn't acknowledge my request.

Around a corner, I nearly stumble right into him. He has waited after all.

"What do you want?" he asks me. "The Moulin Rouge is crowded with tourists. Pleasure-seekers. It is full of beautiful women to look at, and women to touch. Why have you pursued me? Unless you suffer from irregular vision you will see I am no woman, neither am I beautiful. I am not what you seek."

"There is nothing wrong with my vision," I assure him. "And I have neither wish nor desire to spend the evening in the company of a woman, however beautiful."

He almost sneers. "Are you one of those, then? I am not, and I am insulted by your attention."

"Those? No, though I don't share your apparent disdain for any who prefer the affections of their own gender."

"I have no disdain for fairies - they don't bother me. But I will have nothing to do with freak collectors who will pretend an attraction to someone irredeemably unattractive, to what end I cannot imagine. And I find myself entirely unable to believe that anyone unafflicted could harbor a genuine attraction to me."

This is stated with no resentment or vitriol, no rancor or self-pity. The man who sees others with so sympathetic and radiant a visual acuity has evaluated himself, reaching a pragmatic and sadly accurate assessment.

"Sir, I merely wish to converse with you. Would you walk with me a while, so that we can talk?" I ask, mentally cursing myself for chasing him out of the club in such a fashion, and thus alarming him. His cane taps along the paving stones beneath our feet. "Or perhaps we could find another bar?"

"Why?" he says. "Who are you, and what are you, besides of no interest to me?"

I live by a code, am morally bound by it, and the rules are very clear. To be disobedient is to receive sanction. And that sanction will be more than just a smack on the hand. It's not ostracism, no, nothing that mild. It's execution. Rule-makers take their job seriously.

The rules are very old, but those who set them are older still.

And I was contemplating something in direct contravention of those undefiable, inarguable statutes.

One: Create no children, first and foremost.

Two: Create only BEAUTY. Not just beauty, pretty and unremarkable, but imperative, shout-it-out, undeniable BEAUTY.

Three: Obey the rules.

The code, as I have said, is very clear, yet surely there is leeway - room for discretionary interpretation? The rule-makers are older than I am, yet I have known them a long time. Nearly two hundred and fifty years, in fact. The man before me is not long for this life, I can detect the scent of decay as the disease in his body attacks him. When I was young and newly-made, I saw the art of Michelangelo and believed in the Divine. God had created the world, and created man, and had extended his grace to an Italian youth in the form of a talent so remarkable that every result of his labors was a work ineffably blessed. And tonight I have seen in an entirely different style the expression again of talent that surpasses definition, defies explanation. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec has a gift that should live forever, and a death waiting just around the corner.

I have a gift too - one that I can bestow, though I've never yet given it. This is the first time in my unlife I have wanted to create another immortal.

He is impatient for my answer, and he is so irascible a personality that I sense his courtesy will desert him if I take more than a moment. I could well be hit about the shins with his cane, or sworn at for accosting him in the street.

"I am first and foremost an appreciator of art, and secondly a doctor," I begin. "My wish to speak to you arises both from my admiration for your paintings, and my curiosity as to what medical condition you have been diagnosed with."

"You are impertinent," he states. I prepare myself to be dismissed, but he continues, "I will need more liquor if our discourse is to follow its current trajectory."

Moments later we are seated in another bar, facing one another as a waiter immediately brings a cognac-laden tray. It appears they know him here. It also appears the golden fire of brandy while not improving his general mood, loosens his tongue.

"You're a doctor?" he growls. "Then you know perfectly well what condition I am diagnosed with."

"I know one of them," I answer. "As to the rest, I couldn't speculate without questioning you closely, and making an examination. I would also require a detailed family history."

"What would my family have to do with anything?" he asks. "I assume you have already identified that I have the pox. So why am I malformed? As a youth, I broke both legs in successive accidents. Neither healed properly, leaving me as you see me now."

I believe it to be unlikely his stature is the result of imperfectly healed bone fractures, and I tell him so.

"I have no idea what you're thinking - but if you wish to know something of my ancestry - how's this for a fact? My grandmothers are sisters."

"Indeed?" I murmur. "There has been little research done into the effects of cosanguinity on children born of such familial unions, but history offers us many examples of abnormalities amongst the offspring of closely related partners."

My companion swallows the last of the drink in the goblet before him, running his fingertip along the rim of the glass and gazing contemplatively at nothing.

"Monsieur, you may have some theories, and you may have some insights. However, I am very fatigued and you will have to excuse me, for I need my bed."

I fear I may have offended him, in infering that his parentage may be the cause of his physical challenges, but he sighs heavily and rubs at his eyes.

"So tired, always so tired..." he mutters, and looks back to me with an expression that is almost imploring.

"I have much yet to do, but this weariness overcomes me, I can barely pick up my brush, can barely hold my palette - I am rendered positively torpid by this wretched condition..."

No sooner have I had the thought than I have made the decision. I can offer him respite everlong, from the debilitation he suffers. Painlessness, wakefulness will be his, and not one more grain of sand will run from the hourglass of his talent. I can give his art eternity, and give eternity his art.

But how to broach the subject?

I commence carefully. "Sir, a moment more of your time. There is a question of a philosophical nature I would like to put to you. Currently, you ail. As all things do, you will slow and fade, and come to an end. You feel the beginning of the process now, and in your case it will only quicken. What would you say to the prospect of immortality, if there was any such thing?"

He is quiet for such a long pause, eyes closed and head tilted to the high back of his chair that I begin to suspect he has actually fallen asleep. However without opening his eyes, he eventually murmurs, "Do you mean immortality as a painter or as a man?"

"Those things are inextricable, for you, are they not? You cannot be either and not the other."

"Certainement, you are correct," he muses. "However, let me answer one by one. As a painter - hmph."

He raises a hand which he gestures with dismissively. "I produce - _tableaux_ - because I am compelled to. Art itself dictates to me, and there is no other way for me to live. Amongst certain circles it is true that there exists an appreciation of my endeavours, but if I were to live forever, what value would my work hold then? It would be an interminable output that would cease to have any value because of its prevalence. It would be commonplace and unavoidable. People would grow to despise it - as familiarity breeds contempt, n'est-ce pas?"

Unable to imagine ever considering the works I have seen tonight commonplace, I lean forward in my seat silently, awaiting his further comments.

"As to immortality as a _man_, look at me! _Really_ look, with scrutiny and honest appraisal. I am scarcely a fine figure, nor an ordinary one. I am not even plain. The unfortunate truth is that I am, to most eyes, repulsive. Pox-ridden and deformed. The good lady who gave me the infection that has taken up residency within me only did so because I paid her. She has since died, and I shall die also from the transaction we shared. If I were to live forever yet retain this form, I would live forever alone and lonely, for who is there to love the unlovable? I am afflicted by the sorry outcome of a few moments' pleasure, and even if I weren't, I have never been regarded favorably by a woman. They would have to be blind not to be disgusted by my physiognomy. And I do not wish to offend you with information of a private nature, but I am misshapen in ways that cannot be seen when I am fully clothed. The women I pay for affection work hard for their money, mon vieux, and deserve every centime of it. A girl unpaid and not professional would barely be able to keep from screaming at the sight of me in her boudoir.

"So you have your answer. Though immortality is an idea only, and not a reality, I would not choose it. In fact, I would reject it most vigorously, as I have no wish to spend countless years ill-formed and ill-favored. I have lived long enough without love as it is. My art is no solace, you know. A paintbrush cannot hold me, a tube of pigment cannot kiss me. I paint women who would not touch me, save through a commercial agreement - and an eternity of that? Bah! Intolerable. Life is already but one shade removed from hell - immortality would be worse. While I have no wish to hasten my departure from these environs, my rest when it comes, will be welcome."

Reflecting upon his words, I realize that the quandary I thought myself to be in earlier this evening is not a quandary. I would not change him by force, though I easily could, so I will not change him at all. The rules so important to those who made them will not be transgressed by me.

"You are no ordinary man, to speak of such things as though you wished me to consider your fancy seriously," he muses. "But mon vieux, all this, all this - " and here he turns and gestures with an arm as though to encompass all of Paris, "has been mine, for one glorious moment in time. That is more than one man could wish for, or deserve."

And so I understand that Henri Toulouse Lautrec will not accept my offer, though the ravages of his affliction and his addiction are taking their inexorable toll.

And though he cannot possibly see the truth of me, see what I am, I am not quite at ease in the presence of such greatness, such insight. His artistic ability is prodigious, his suffering has given him perception so acute that I feel exposed. My kind view exposure with the utmost reluctance. The clarity of his vision could be dangerous to me, and it is time I left.

He beats me to the departure, pushing his chair back, balancing himself upon the cane.

"Conversing with you has been most interesting, and I believe our discussion has reached a natural conclusion. Bonne nuit," he murmurs, turning his back, hobbling into the night.

Though I would dearly love to speak with him more, I know I will not. During our short exchange he has revealed much to me, while I have not granted him the same candor. I have never before met a man I feel I could give unguarded friendship to, and fickle fortune has thrown me such a man for far too brief a time - in the scheme of things this evening counts as no more than a blink. Henri Toulouse Lautrec is intriguing and forthcoming, proud and humble, sensitive and arrogant, and talented beyond measure.

And though he has refused the immortality I could give him - he will surely have his own.

.

.

.

If you speak French and mine is all wrong, I apologize. I don't speak any - I used a translator site.


	16. RED GINGHAM

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Department Store

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Jasper, Alice

Rating: K

RED GINGHAM

The girl on the pavement seems surprised by the rain. She stands beneath the awning of the department store, clutching shopping bags and frowning at the puddles along the curb.

She's wearing the cutest outfit I've ever seen - a red gingham dress with petticoats peeking from the hem, and red suede cowboy boots. No wonder the water's a concern.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" I enquire, and she turns. She's gorgeous, and definitely not helpless.

"No thanks, I'm fine," she grins, tugging off the boots to skip across the road in bare feet.

That's all it takes - I want to be hers.


	17. INEXPLICABLY

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Prom

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: K+

INEXPLICABLY

There once was a boy named Edward

With hair stick-uppy and redward

I became irked

Whenever he smirked

I nearly slapped his silly headward

.

There once was a boy named Edward

Who one day inexplicably fledward

Instead of relief

I experienced grief

Wanting him with me insteadward

.

There once was a boy named Edward

Who asked me to prom and I saidward

"Do you promise

That I'll get a kiss?"

He replied "You can take it as readward."

.

There once was a boy named Edward

Whose idea was that we should be wedward

Though I protested

Our vows were attested

And now we spend all day in bedward

.

.

.

This one blows out the 100-word limit. Don't hate me!

I can wrestle with it some more, and I probably will


	18. DELIRIOUS

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Hospital

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Bella, Edward

Rating: K

DELIRIOUS

Low clouds, a mountain too close, the horrible crunch of impact.

"I know this area. There's a monastery," the pilot gasps before dying.

Trudge endlessly higher. As I collapse, I'm rescued.

"The valley of youth," I'm told, cautioned against leaving this haven for eagles.

I fall in love, so in love, with a young man who kisses me, but I miss home. My lover will come with me, so we depart.

The way is hard, I'm injured and delirious. We seek a hospital.

Waking alone, I cry, "Edward?"

"The man who brought you in? He died," they tell me. "Of old age."

.

.

.

I hardly have any reviews. Moan, moan, moan. Nobody likes me.

Couldn't you at least tell me you think I'm boring?

.

.

Oh, and btw this is referencing Lost Horizon by um..um.. James Hilton.

You know, they could totally remake it as a movie starring me, along with, like - I'm not that fussy - anyone handsome that I'd have to kiss lots of times. I imagine the casting list would be really, really long. And you know, I'd just pash every single one of them without complaining, because it's all in a day's work.


	19. CERTAIN

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : High School

Pen Name: once twice thrice

Pairing/Main Character(s): Leah, Seth

Rating: T

CERTAIN

I'm only eighteen, but I'm certain I've already met the love of my life.

My sister Leah is scathing.

"God, Seth - how can you fall for someone from your own high school? You've never met anyone else!" she sneered. "Get a fucking life!"

Her words are hurtful, but I know why she's reacting this way.

There are only three gay people in this whole town. One of them is me, and one is my boyfriend. I'm lucky I didn't have to leave family, friends and home behind to find love.

But there is absolutely nobody here for Leah.


	20. RECREATION

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Sporting Goods Store

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Bella, Edward

Rating: T

RECREATION

5.25 - the phone rang.

Damn!

I was ready to lock up and get out of there.

"Newton's Sports," I said, reluctantly.

"Hello? I have a special delivery for Bella Swan," the caller replied.

"We're about to close. Could you ring again tomorrow?"

"This can't wait until tomorrow. Anyway, I'm right outside."

I knew that voice. He'd been trying to disguise it, but I recognized Edward, who I'd been dating for the last month.

"Okay. What's the delivery?"

"Balls," he said.

"Balls?"

"And a bat. Sort of. It's recreational equipment, anyway. It's extendable..."

_Ohrilly_? "Give me five minutes."

_Game on._

_._

_._

_._


	21. THE PAST IS A FARAWAY PLACE

The Twilight Twenty-Five

thetwilight25[dot]com

Prompt : Garage

Pen Name: jackqueenking

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella, Jacob

Rating: K+

THE PAST IS A FARAWAY PLACE

Though the weather had been fair for the best part of a month it suddenly took a turn for the worse, and the valiant little boat lurched in the resultant rough seas. Hours pitched the vessel through swells reaching yards high, and greedy hungry waves licked a path full across the deck, down the hatchway. Their salty tongues plunged the distance into the hold and lapped at what they found there, a cargo of luggage and worldly goods belonging to the few passengers, whose objective had been to enjoy a holiday in a place distant from where they'd originated. Well, they now would, so that objective was not to be unmet. The bottom of the sea was nowhere near where any of them had come from.

But three dawns later the sea had weighed them up, tasted their fear and their mettle, their belongings and their all, and had found nothing to her liking. Oceania is fond of her trophies it's true, and has pulled many a vessel down to grace her floors as pretty ornaments for the denizens of the deep to gaze upon, but this broken craft would add nothing of interest to her collection, and the sharks hereabouts were well fed already. She kept the captain for his brass buttons, and the first mate for his jaunty pegleg, but the holiday-makers were deposited bedraggled and limp on hard sand, their craft tossed unceremoniously after them.

The first to wake was the chauffeur, staunch fellow, though the term chauffeur implies rather less work than the multi-skilled Mr Jacob was usually required to undertake.

Checking that all the party were alive and breathing, though supine, his immediate thought was to salvage anything that could be of use in their imminent struggle for survival. Very little could be recoverable from the wreck of the once splendid Twilight Dancer, but he waded thigh-deep into the swirls of now-gentle ripples, amongst the strewn planks, searching for practical items. Sturdy suitcases had been torn asunder by the ocean's curiosity, and Mr Jacob gathered a few armfuls of miscellanea which he piled upon the sand, returning again and again to the boat's dismantled carcass. Soon all that was left would be washed to sea, to perhaps turn up on some lonely shore elsewhere, or to be worn by turtles. A small box floating like Tantalusian grapes just beyond reach prompted him to dive out of his depth, but proved worth the danger when it yielded kitchen equipment. Knives! If you are stranded on a desert island and you have knives all is not lost, providing you can find a supply of fresh, clean water.

Water.

Mr Jacob trudged his way back up the beach, noticing that some of his co-travellers were stirring. The party consisted of his employer, a Dr Carlisle Cullen, Dr Cullen's son, Mr Edward Cullen, and Dr Cullen's two daughters, the Misses Rosalie and Alice Cullen. Mr Cullen's fiancee Miss Isabella Swan was also accompanying the family for this trip. Mr Jacob, chauffeur, had been brought to provide such assistance as the Cullens should require on their holiday, as had Miss Leah, the maid. Right now, the amount of assistance required was looking to be a great deal. It was looking far more than Mr Jacob's training and previous experience had prepared him for.

Still, timidity doesn't scale mountains, and trepidation cannot ford a river. Mr Jacob had already ascertained that no-one appeared to be suffering broken bones or extreme blood-loss, and he therefore left the medical reconnoitre to Dr Cullen, electing to take himself away alone in search of nature's most essential ingredient.

So much green abounded that he surmised there must be plenty of water present, he just needed to find a source of it. Figuring any outpourings would find their inevitable way to the sea he hugged the shoreline as he explored, and sure enough, soon enough, found the trickle of a stream, which when followed through undergrowth and overgrowth, led eventually to a pleasant pool. Darting birds bright as jewels criss-crossed the air around him, huge flowers dipped heavy heads nodding at their reflections, and the air was noticeably damper here in the shade amongst huge moss-trunked trees. Mr Jacob plunged his hands into the pool, cupping them and raising the welcome elixir to his mouth. Sweet it was, tranquil and slippery on the inside and outside of his throat.

Somewhere here there must be a spot they could make camp, set themselves up some sort of shelter, make an inventory of selves and chattels, and then take stock of their surroundings.

He made his way back down to the beach, an hour's traversal of the uneven terrain, and announced his findings. The Cullen clan sat looking bleak and lost, the gentlewomen crying.

"What a situation!" Dr Cullen repeated bemusedly. Miss Leah had apparently gone to the treeline, brought back a few tall stout sticks and broad leaves, and utilizing thin strips of fabric torn from her petticoat to bind it all together had fashioned a type of bivouac for the sisters Cullen, and their guest Miss Swan. The ladies sat huddled in the shade while Miss Leah sat in the sun, staring about with an avid curiosity.

"Where on earth did you get to, fellow? I thought you'd abandoned us," Dr Cullen said irritably.

"I found fresh water, sir, and a place where we might make camp," Mr Jacob answered.

"Camp?" Dr Cullen snorted. "We'll have no need of a _camp_. Just get the boat seaworthy and we'll be on our way. By the way, where _is_ the damned boat?"

Mr Jacob looked out over the now pacific bay, empty of mast or hull. Empty of all but blue, in fact, as far as the eye could see. "There is nothing left of it to repair, sir."

Dr Cullen frowned. "Well then, we'll flag down the next passing ship."

Mr Jacob drew a deep breath. "I'd been observing the captain's charts as we made our progress, sir, and given the direction of the wind that blew us, and the tidal pattern showing on the chart, and allowing for drift and currents, I suspect that we've arrived somewhere that is not on any major shipping lines. I think it best if we were to make ourselves as comfortable as possible while we wait."

Dr Cullen drew a deep breath in response. "Wait for what, and for how long?"

"I've no idea, sir," was the answer.

Dr Cullen, already pale of complexion, seemed to become paler. "You think we are lost? Well, hush, man, don't upset the ladies."

And over the weeks that followed, Mr Jacob singlehandedly constructed two sturdy little huts, chopping logs using an axe he had reclaimed from the wreck, and a knife to cut palm fronds. Mr Edward was quite unable to take part, as he couldn't stand the sunshine, and sunshine was in abundance in this warm, wild territory the sea had thrown them into. Mr Edward needed to spend most of his time occupying the bountiful shade afforded so generously by the splendid, many-armed trees. Miss Leah, meanwhile, sacrificed more of her underskirt, draping a large piece of the fabric around a twig frame she lashed together to make a rudimentary, though effective net. Daily she hitched her skirts up and wandered into the shallows that lapped like kittens, catching fish as she went. She gutted them and left them, fat and glistening, still silver, lying on round flat stones in the brilliance of the tropical light, instructing the Cullen sisters not to let birds take them, while she paced on her strong legs further up the hill to gather greens they'd never seen before, and speckled eggs. Miss Swan at first sat with the Cullen sisters guarding the fish, but after a matter of days wanted to help with the food gathering.

"How do you know what isn't poisonous?" she asked Miss Leah curiously, eyeing the things Miss Leah was digging up, lumpy, cylindrical items, earth-hued.

"I don't," Miss Leah, never a chatterbox, answered.

After each day's labor, Mr Jacob and Miss Leah seemed energized. After each day's rest, the Misses and Mr and Dr Cullen seemed exhausted. Their stalwart erstwhile employees and current caretakers would strike a fire amongst a cone they'd assemble of collected sticks, and they'd produce meals. No plates! No glassware! No candelabra! Worst of all, no napkins! Conditions were challenging for the Cullens, though Miss Swan appeared to be adapting slowly, having perhaps not come from stock quite as fine. Indeed, her bloodline became a topic of discussion between the sisters.

"Do you think someone in her ancestry might have - _worked_?"

"Perhaps on a - _farm_?"

And over the weeks that followed, nobody quite noticed when it was that the "Mr's" and "Miss's" disappeared, and the island's inhabitants referred to one another simply by single names. Some of them, that is. Jacob, Leah and Isabella called one another Jacob, Leah and Isabella.

Now Jacob had always been somewhat ruddy of feature, and his hands were the same color. However, all the women, with the possible exception of Miss Leah, who may or may not have been better acquainted with him previously than the rest of them had, found themselves surprised to see that when he rolled his sleeves up to wash his hands before he ate, his arms were also reddish-brown.

This became a topic of conversation between the sisters.

"Do you think he rolls his sleeves up when he's chopping down trees?"

"And the sun has marked him?"

One day Jacob arrived back at the encampment in the late afternoon completely naked to the waist, and the Cullen sisters clasped each other, blinking furiously, and quite unable to comment. Jacob appeared to have been marked by the sun all over. They couldn't resume their discussion for hours.

"Do you possess another shirt?" Mr Edward asked curtly - a rhetorical question, as the sea had eaten all their clothes, save for the garments they were wearing at the time she had climbed on board. The pysical labor undertaken by Jacob had worn his shirt through to threadbare, and the strained fibres had bid one another adieu and separated, never to meet again. Jacob remained shirtless, glistening, the magnificent russet of a bay horse, and as sleekly muscled. The sisters Cullen stopped averting their eyes, instead risking heart failure daily.

"I mean, it's discourteous not to look at someone when they speak directly to you, isn't it?"

"We weren't brought up to be discourteous."

Time passed. Days, weeks, and even months. The four effete, that is, _delicate_, members of the castaways learned to manage one or two simple acts while the more industrious others of their party were engaged in the ongoing business of finding food and improving living conditions. It was discovered Miss Rosalie Cullen, with sufficient instruction, could wield a handmade broom reasonably well. Miss Alice Cullen, observing demonstrations aplenty, mastered the act of carrying utensils to the stream to wash them after use. Mr Edward Cullen remained affected by the heat and lost the mastery he used to show back in their old life. Dr Cullen too seemed listless these days, and indecisive. Jacob and Leah were forced into ruling the new roost, and this little society became quite the opposite of what they had all been used to.

And when society turns on its head, traditions no longer apply, rules lose relevance and mores are outdated. The new evolves, forced into being and finding shapes for itself that flow along their own channels. Variables can't be predicted, and people change or become consolidated versions of themselves. It's impossible to know what may or may not transpire.

In this uncharted territory Isabella was an explorer, a pioneer, a wayfarer. Previously withdrawn and unadventurous, she was surprised to discover she was not the type to languish in dappled shade gazing out over the horizon as if to conjure deliverance. Isabella took to island life and self-sufficiency, not minding the cuts and scrapes from forging new paths.

Always she was considerate of Mr Edward Cullen, her fiance, and would sit with him every evening murmuring quietly, speaking with wonder of gleaming flowers and birds, of towering cliffs and ferns, of curling waves and clouds, while Edward with nostalgia spoke of home.

"I miss it so, Isabella, don't you?"

"Well, yes, Edward, but there is much to experience and enjoy here."

"But how shall we ever be married, Isabella, in this godless place? We could perish here - what of our souls?"

She had always thought him poetic and romantic, with his thinness and pallor, and she still did. At least, she tried to, though his melancholy was beginning to seem deliberate pessimism, his outlook determinedly bleak.

Meanwhile Jacob strode through her daylight with nothing thin or pale, pessimistic or bleak about him. He negotiated the terrain with ease, and the mastery which had deserted Mr Edward Cullen settled about Jacob's shoulders, though with more gravitas, as it had been earned by merit, not conferred by surname. Isabella couldn't help but feel admiration, a little thrill, a little _surge_, as Jacob managed them all smoothly and instinctively. He may not have been born a leader but leadership was manifest in him.

And Jacob watched Isabella turn from the nervous white mouse she had been on arrival, with inquisitiveness written on her luminous skin and hope in her huge eyes, but submission like manacles governing every aspect of her behaviour, to a slender Amazon, long hair streaming as she traversed the hills and rocks, laughter quick and ready and ideas tumbling. The reactive bride from worlds ago had ceased to exist and here amongst the scents and sounds of wildness was an unencumbered spirit.

Amongst the scents and sounds of wildness one day, Jacob and Isabella reached a mutual discovery.

They were standing in a clearing, green above and below, sticky warmth held in by the woven ceiling and the music of the insects with nowhere to go but to circulate - an emerald ballroom in a forest mansion.

Into the humid tranquility, Jacob remarked, "Well, this is not what any of us envisaged when we embarked all those weeks ago for a summer holiday."

Isabella responded, "No, it certainly isn't. We couldn't have imagined this."

Jacob asked, "Are you hating the hardship here?"

Isabella queried, "Hardship?"

Jacob pointed out, "The lack of civility. The lack of amenities. The lack of comfort."

Isabella answered, "Truthfully? No. I like the simplicity. The peace. Life has lost its complications."

Jacob questioned, "Complications?"

Isabella said, "Yes. The busy-ness, the to and fro. The worry about manners and niceties and appearances and deportment. The constraints, the restrictions. The expectations and the requirements. It's a pleasure to be somewhere so serene. What really matters here is getting on with the necessities of life, unadorned."

Jacob answered, "I wouldn't have expected you to say that - a fine lady, used to ease. I must say, you've presented a different point of view. I thought you'd have preferred things as they were previously."

Isabella demurred, "No, actually. I prefer things as they are now. It's all so straightforward and honest."

In the spirit of honesty, Jacob seized the moment.

"Isabella, would it fair to say that under these new conditions, with the past so far away from us, that you and I have become friends? In a way that we couldn't have been before?"

Isabella of the forest mansion nodded in the affirmative.

"It's possible that we may never be rescued, you know," Jacob continued. "And as you've just remarked, things are different on this island. I know that you are engaged to be married to Mr Edward Cullen - but may I be so forward as to ask - is it a love match? Or one for convenience?"

Isabella blushed, and Jacob rushed on, "Because if you love him, I will do my best to be happy for you both. But a marriage for convenience is meaningless here. If the two of you are not in love, perhaps you could be released from your commitment."

"Why?"

Jacob reached for Isabella's hand, which trembled like the leaves above them, though dancing on a different wind.

"Because _I_ would love you," he said softly."Honor and respect you, cherish and adore you."

He looked impassioned and aflame, and Isabella thought of Mr Edward Cullen, who always appeared aloof. Jacob's hand was warm as the island's beaming sun, and work-hardened. Edward's hand, if he ever touched her, was cool and soft. Guilty longing and shameful desire bloomed in a heart never yet stirred, and though the pleading look she bestowed upon Jacob showed hesitancy and confusion, he saw the Isabella she didn't know - the imago emerged from the chrysalis of a conservative upbringing - who could return his ardor. Quite unvisited now by the societal prohibitions which would have prevented this ever happening in the past, he kissed her.

His lips upon hers were gentle at first, but even in their very gentleness conveyed more feeling than the few restrained caresses she had received from her betrothed. Isabella responded with alacrity that surprised both of them, and upon feeling it, Jacob's kiss became searing. Isabella's hands rose to his shoulders seeking solidity as she felt her feet had left the ground and she had become somehow airborne or vaporized, or _some_thing.

Thinking she was pushing him away, he let her go immediately, staring in distress at the way her hand had flown to her mouth.

"Forgive me. I forgot myself. I would never, ever offend you. Please, I won't be brutish again. Don't be afraid of me."

But Isabella's hand wasn't over her lips in protection, or to ward him off. It was there to capture the sensations he had given her and keep them for good, to hold them there, never to escape.

"My declaration was impositional, as are my attentions. I see that. I am unwelcome. You have my unreserved apology, my unconditional attrition..."

Revealing impressive and unexpected articulacy for a chauffeur, Jacob appeared ready to continue expressing regret for an unlimited amount of time, but Isabella's voice stopped him.

"There is nothing unwelcome about you," she stated, stepping closer.

Never so brazen, usually craven, never so bold with the cold Mr Cullen, she'd never yearned. Never felt her breath quicken nor had her heart speed. Never felt _need_, never churned, never burned.

"Please, kiss me again," she invited, and breathlessly, Jacob did.

They made their way back to the encampment after dozens of kisses, or perhaps only several that lingered lengthily, loathe to leave, and there they found the able Leah showing the Misses Rosalie and Alice how to pluck a bird. Leah had Dr Cullen ordered into usefulness too, tending a fire, feeding little sticks to the voracious thing. Mr Edward was down at the shore, kneeling at a rockpool's edge, inspecting the tricky, clever baskets Leah had woven to catch lobster. He returned wielding one in triumph, as though he was a hunter, emerging victorious from the fray, having risked limb and life pitching himself against the savagery of an untamed beast, instead of having retrieved a crustacean from a trap.

Isabella proffered the cluster of tubers and leaves she had gathered, and Rosalie and Alice set about preparing the meal, as they had started to do lately. Edward and Carlisle assisted where necessary, as they had started to do lately, and Jacob, Leah and Isabella meandered to a favorite spot close by, to reflect.

"I never want to go back to our previous existence," Leah remarked, echoing the thought that was newly uppermost in her companions' minds.

"You want to grow old here?" Jacob asked, wondering if Isabella would make a response.

"Of course I do. Here we work for ourselves, and now that a safe home has been built, the amount of work we need to do has decreased. Here we can swim and play - we have the sunlight and the breeze on our skins instead of being stuck inside a damp, dark house scrubbing banisters and polishing brass. There, I wake and want to scream. Here, I wake and want to sing," Leah answered.

"I know what you mean," was Isabella's comment.

"_You_? You led a life of leisure. You had servants. You were going to marry Edward Cullen and become Lady of the Manor. What could you find to prefer about a desert island, when you've known luxury and wealth?" Leah asked doubtfully.

Jacob leaned forward, wanting to hear this reply, hoping, hoping...

"Just look about you! We have a bounty of wealth all around us, and we can share in it equally," Isabella began. "I didn't like having servants, and being idle. And as to my marriage, nobody ever asked me if I _wanted_ it. It was a business transaction, and it was _suitable_. My money, his name. I don't miss any of those aspects of society - class, snobbery, propriety. Here they're nothing. There, they're everything."

Her skin prickled and tingled as Jacob sighed beside her. If someone of his status had so much as _glanced_ at her in their old incarnation, never mind the kissing, he would have been arrested. And if she had glanced at him, she would have branded with a defamatory name, and disgraced. Consigned to spinsterhood.

"Well, I feel like a stroll before dinner. Would you like to come with me, or shall I see you back at the camp?" Leah offered, getting to her feet.

"I think I'll stay and sit, thank you," Jacob said, Isabella agreeing, adding she'd been on her feet all day. All day except the moments she'd been suspended on a cloud, but Leah wouldn't know about that.

Jacob wanted to kiss more, as evidenced by the way he placed his mouth to Isabella's, but she drew back.

"No," she murmured, to his consternation and dismay, but she dispelled those sudden fears of his with her next words.

"Dear Jacob, I have realized slowly over the past months that I care greatly for you, and have realized only just now that my regard is returned. However, I must speak to Edward. I must break off the engagement. It's not wrong for me to feel this way towards you, but it _is_ dishonorable to act on it while Edward believes that he and I are betrothed."

This was fair, Jacob had to admit to himself. Grudgingly.

They rose and walked together side-by-side, though not hand-in-hand, each acutely aware that the other was in touching distance. Isabella wanted to do the right thing by Edward, as far as was possible under the circumstances, and Jacob wanted whatever would make Isabella come to him, open-armed and heart free.

Aromas wafting over the sand informed them both that the bird cooked on a rotating spit over hot coals was ready to serve, as was the lobster which had been simmered in a pot of light broth flavored with herbs.

The group sat roughly in a circle in the sand, eating with their fingers.

"Delicious," someone said.

"Delectable," someone else affirmed.

"What's that out over the bay?" someone else asked. "A _ship_?"

In a flash the castaways had leapt to their feet and rushed to the sea's verge, to the warm, unpredictable mightiness which now tugged teasingly at their ankles, calves, knees, inviting them in.

"_Send up a signal!_" Dr Cullen roared.

There was kindling next to the cooking fire, but scarcely nutritious enough to turn small flames into soaring flares that could be seen offshore. Back up the hill sat a stack of logs Jacob had piled, which he was turning into planks as needed. He was the only one of the party strong enough to wield the axe, the only one strong enough to lift these huge offcuts of trees. The Cullen sisters had watched him as he worked with the timber, and had discussed it.

"He's very - "

"Yes. Very."

And really, it was upon Jacob's shoulders that the future lay. It always had been. They'd been there months, and they'd evolved a topsy-turvy system, implemented and enabled by Jacob, that fed and housed them all. If they were rescued they'd go home, and would the old order be re-instated? Every single one of them felt the thudding of their own beating hearts as they were suspended in time, and Jacob felt the weight of responsibility. He'd ensured their survival thus far, his practicality and positive attitude had led their little band from shipwreck to idyll. What to do? Was there any doubt?

There was Isabella, his beloved, gazing at him. Mind rushing, Jacob saw himself and Isabella joined in love and passion, saw the two of them happy and smiling, saw her heavy with child and agonizing in the throes of childbirth, saw his progeny, his family, his dark-eyed laughing children dappled with sunlight and shadows.

In utter and indefinite isolation.

Oh, Isabella - can I do that to you? To us? To our children? I cannot. You are all that matters to me, and I could not do anything that might possibly cause you distress or make you suffer.

With his titan's strength, Jacob hefted log after log down to the shore, building the biggest fire the island had ever hosted. The trees shivered, fearing their dismemberment and sacrifice, as well they might. The light evening wind, in contrast, performed undulating dances of delight. Her movements could be traced in the wafting of smoke as she swayed and weaved seductively. And the flames? Perhaps they sought the sky, with a fire's homing instinct seeking the source of all flames, the sun. Perhaps they wished to defy gravity, it being beneath them, as it is beneath all of us. Perhaps they enjoyed their own grandeur.

On the beach an inferno blazed, a beacon, an announcement. Privately, Isabella thought, "It's so beautiful. You wouldn't think of it as a distress call. More of a celebration."

Alerted and drawn, a rowboat arrived, sailors, seamen, crew.

"What - ho?" they exclaimed at the tidy huts, the furniture, the cooking apparatus.

And since it was nearly nightfall, the leaving didn't happen straightaway. Carlisle, Edward, Rosalie, Alice, Isabella, Jacob and Leah were transported to the ship, which laid anchor in the wide bay.

Come morning, early, early, Isabella was on deck, eyes affixed to the golden shore and deepness of dark trees beyond.

"Did I do the right thing?" a pained voice asked, the voice of Jacob, beside her at the bow.

Isabella wasn't sure how to answer. Already, she'd seen that the sailors looked at her differently to how they looked at Rosalie and Alice. Isabella's dress was torn into disarray. She hadn't felt her modesty compromised on the island, but only a matter of yards offshore was keenly aware that her ankles could be seen. Leah's ankles were on show too, but Leah didn't care in the slightest. Isabella, on the other hand, felt slightly ashamed, as though she hadn't taken enough care. She should have been more respectful.

During the long voyage back to the past, Isabella agonized over her future. Things were uncertain now - she had no idea what might happen. There were no opportunities to be alone with Jacob to talk to him and she had no confidante. Jacob had fallen silent under questioning from the captain, but Dr Cullen had recovered some of the eloquence he'd accrued in giving medical lectures and suchlike, continents away and oceans ago, and had furnished colorful accounts. Some of them approached accuracy. Leah scowled at the sailors, disinclined to speak, Isabella felt unqualified and intimidated.

Their old home, not as left behind as they'd thought, raced up borne on winds of trepidation for some of them, and perhaps tides of relief for others. After all, for months spent castaway under palm trees and on golden sands, were they not the same people who had embarked on a pleasure cruise more than half a year back?

At the quayside when they docked, a small throng had gathered, muttering loud enough to be easily heard.

"Oh my goodness. Shipwrecked without a _comb_! Look at their _hair_!"

"How on earth do you suppose they survived?"

"Their clothes are_ torn_."

Edward stepped in front of Isabella, as though to shield her. "My dear, don't listen to the speculators and gossips. You must come home with us, with my family, until you are quite rested and recovered from our terrible ordeal, and then, my dear, perhaps we might commence the planning of our upcoming nuptials?"

_It wasn't terrible_, Edward, Isabella thought miserably. _On the island I was happy in a way I've never been happy before._

She glanced towards Jacob and saw that he was stoically remaining silent, fixedly looking away.

"Please, Edward, a little time. I couldn't possibly think about that now, but certainly we must speak on the matter," she breathed, and Edward brought his cold, cold forefinger to her cheek.

"Of course, my love. A little time," he promised soothingly. "But now that we're back in civilisation, there's no need for tarry."

A carriage was summoned, and it was discovered that they couldn't all fit inside it. A second was called. It so happened that Dr Cullen, Mr Cullen, Miss Cullen and Miss Cullen and Miss Swan were the perfect amount of people to fit into the first. Jacob and Leah rode along afterwards.

And was that the start of the return that Leah, for one, hadn't wanted to make? 'The return to what?' you might ask. Well, the status quo, of course. What is a status quo? It's the way things are. What happens if there are more ways than one? Perhaps such a thing can't be. Perhaps there is only ever one. There is only ever the present, and the past is a faraway place, no matter how recently one has left it.

Isabella was no sooner ensconced in the Cullen family's stately home than Leah and Jacob were whisked away. On that afternoon Isabella sat in a comfortable chair, draped in silken robes borrowed from the Cullen sisters, down pillows at her back and a sizzling pot of tea with a plate of ginger biscuits on the occasional table in front of her, gazing through the bay window. The lake lay spread before her, trout or some such in it, and waterfowl about the sides nestling in reeds. Clouds blanketed the sky. There was some intermittent lowing of cattle, but no lusty insect buzzing, or ceaseless birdcalls. No sea whispers.

She started at a knock on the door, which opened to admit Leah.

"Oh, I am so pleased to see you!" Isabella cried, leaping to her feet to hug her friend, but Leah was clutching piles of linen, with no arms to spare.

"I am here to make your bed, Miss," she announced dully.

"Gracious! We've only been back a matter of hours! Shouldn't you be resting? Well, let me help," Isabella offered.

"No, Miss, leave it to me," Leah insisted.

Isabella stood uncomfortably by while Leah worked, but Leah had been very firm about not allowing assistance, and the task was completed briskly and efficiently.

"Do you need anything, Miss?" Leah enquired once the bed was immaculate, and fit for a Lady.

"No, I'm fine, thank you. But Leah, please call me Isabella. Surely we're friends?"

"I wouldn't know about that, Miss. And I don't think calling you anything other than 'Miss' would be proper."

"Well, that's just dreadful. I don't want it to be that way. We're _equals_, Leah. Equals and friends."

"No, Miss," Leah answered. "I'm _staff_. I was very lucky to retain my job, Dr Cullen has been very kind. I'm not about to go jeopardizing my livelihood by holding on to funny ideas that are all very well when you're living in a fantasy. This is the real world, and we'd best forget about that other one. If I don't knuckle down and get back on with the cleaning and the waiting and the serving, I'll be penniless and homeless. That's not a joyful prospect. And the same goes for Mr Jacob."

At the mention of Jacob's name Isabella's heart threatened to over-beat, her cheeks to overheat.

"Jacob? Where is he?" she said, imploringly.

"Why, he's in the garage, of course, Miss," Leah replied, as if there was nowhere else Jacob could possibly be.

"I must see him," Isabella whispered, and she was already halfway through the door when she felt Leah's hand on her arm.

"Isabella, I saw how it was for the two of you. But it can't be like that ever again. Jacob can't afford to lose his job either. He can't afford anything, and you would ruin him. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. No. Yes," Isabella said, and flew down the stairs.

Jacob was indeed in the garage, in mechanic's garb with black grease on his hands, and the black spread about where he had wiped sweat from his brow and his jaw. Isabella bit her lip to stop from crying out - smudged and smeared with sweat-dampened hair clinging to his brow he had never looked so - so - _appealing_. Oh, she was a wanton. She could have thrown herself at him.

But something grave and distant in his expression stopped her.

"Miss Isabella - you shouldn't be here," he said in a low voice.

"Of course I should!" she said. "Why would you say so? And why are you calling me Miss? It's _me_, Jacob, _me_. You and I love each other."

"No. We don't," he responded.

"We do," she answered, bewildered. "You - you kissed me. I kissed you back. Nothing has changed. I wish you would kiss me now. I ache for you."

Jacob cleared his throat. "Miss Isabella, I am afraid that I acted with gross impropriety. I would understand if you wanted me dismissed from the service of this household. Please be assured that such conduct will never, ever be repeated, and that I remain your humble and loyal servant."

"J - Jacob?"

"You must excuse me, I have much to do. Nothing has been touched in the garage for months, there is dust everywhere, and my duties are unattended to if I stand here idly. Thank you for the courtesy of your visit, Miss Isabella. I wish you and Mr Cullen every happiness for your lives together."

Isabella clasped her hands together in anguish. "I don't understand," she cried.

"Do you not? Anybody on this estate could explain it to you, indeed, anyone on the street or anyone in the country. Please remember your station, Miss, and allow me to remember mine. We have a conclusion, and a resolution, and no further clarification of our situation is required. Let us not speak of this matter again."

Jacob turned away, picking up a wrench or a spanner, or some such article of hardware as somebody might employ if they were about to conduct an investigation into the workings of a car motor. Clearly to him, this conversation was over.

Distraught to the point of devastation, Isabella stumbled along the sweet briar and eglantine rose path back to the house, finding herself in the parlor before the fireplace. Flames leapt in the grate, for it was cold. She was colder than she could ever remember being. And thus it was that she was found by her fiance.

"Isabella, dearest, I've spoken to Father," Edward began. "You look rather faint - please sit down. I have news that will revive you."

Isabella did as he suggested, since she had nothing else to do other than run about the neighborhood tearing her hair and beating her breast. Or take, dead-hearted, to her bed.

"Since Mr Jacob proved so able and effective and resourceful during our sojourn on that island, I have prevailed upon Father to release him from his employment in this house," Edward said, smiling.

Isabella's heart regained a little spark - she looked up, astonished. If Jacob were no longer a servant... then she and he, he and she - was there somehow a possibility, a hope, a chance... that they could find a way to make a life together?

"Father has agreed, Isabella! I asked that Mr Jacob's contract be transferred from the household of Dr Cullen, to the household of _Mr _Cullen! Once you and I are wed, and living in our own home, Mr Jacob will come with us as butler and driver! Isn't that marvellous?"

Isabella fainted clear away, her senses leaving her, her mind gone blank, her heart unrevivable.

She didn't wake again for months, or that's how it seemed.

The wedding went ahead, as she hadn't the spirit to oppose it. She sleep-walked through the day and the night, and many days and nights thereafter.

Jacob had declined the offer to accompany the newlyweds to their new home, instead choosing to remain in the employ of Dr Cullen, where Miss Leah remained also.

The Misses Cullen found themselves elegant and appropriate suitors, and married.

Isabella forbade herself ever to think about the island because to do so was unbearable, and she resigned herself to getting on with the life which, after all, was the life she thought she'd have. Whenever she and her husband visited his father, she - well. She never ventured any further than the sitting room.

Then one day Dr Cullen announced he had purchased a second automobile. "Would you care to accompany me to the garage to see it, Isabella?" he invited.

"No, thank you," was the swift reply.

The two Dr and Mr Cullen went nonetheless, to admire the vehicle.

"That chauffeur of yours seems to have matters well under control, doesn't he?" Edward remarked once they had returned, and were sipping cognac.

"Oh, indeed, he's very good at his job," Dr Cullen replied. "Most efficient."

"What does he think about the new car?"

"I wouldn't have a clue what Jacob thinks about cars, or anything else for that matter. He hasn't uttered a word in years."

Edward shrugged. "To each his own, I suppose. How about a game of cards, Father?"

"Splendid idea."

The two of them barely noticed when Isabella stood, slowly, and proceeded to the door.

"Excuse me a moment," she murmured, slipping out.

In the garage, she found Jacob, chamois in hand, polishing an already gleaming panel on the side of the car.

"Jacob?"

At the sound of his name, he turned to face her. Years stood between them. Society stood between them. Everything stood between them.

"Isa - Miss Isabella?"

She took a step forward...

And there we'll leave it.

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This was inspired by something someone else wrote. If you recognize it... you'll know how it ends.


	22. ANALOGY

The Twilight Twenty-Five

Prompt : Island

Pen Name: jack queen king

Pairing/Main Character(s): Edward, Bella

Rating: T

ANALOGY

We're both spent, yet he's playful.

"You remind me of Paris," he remarks, sliding down.

"Oui?" I smile.

"Oui. _Here,_" his finger glides, "is La Seine."

Aahh. "Really?"

"Oui. This is La Rive Gauche and this is La Rive Droite."

I smile more.

"And here is Île de la Cité."

Now I _squirm_.

"So - where's Quasimodo?"

"Oh, here he is," The finger explorer is held up. "about to visit Île Saint-Louis which was an island but is now a deep valley. A tunnel, really."

"You're going to fail geography _and _anatomy."

"But I'm not going to fail _you_."

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22 down, only 3 to go!


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